Chapter 9 Emmy
Chapter 9
I’ve never been so thankful to have bought Tic Tacs at an airport.
Emmy
THIS TIME WHEN I arrive in Cali, I’ve got the upper hand because they’ve given me a stylist. His name is Val, and the first thing I think when I see him is that Cinna from The Hunger Games had a baby with the TV show Cupcake Wars . I don’t say that on my blog, though. I just use the word fabulous .
It’s 10:00 a.m. Pacific time, and that means I’m already starving for lunch. The good news is, I don’t have to buy a whole new wardrobe on Rodeo Drive, because Val picked out all my clothes, and they are AH-mazing.
“Our statement,” Val says, looking a bit like the mushroom from Alice in Wonderland in his wide, lacy collar, “is going to be…” He squints at me appraisingly. “Butter!”
“Butter?”
“Yes. Rich, heavy foods and luxury and things with a sheen.”
I don’t quite know how to take that. I’ve been known to moisturize, but I thought that was a good thing. I certainly hope the whole “rich foods” theme isn’t a hint for me to cut my portion sizes.
The photo shoot for Vanity Fair is on the Waldorf Astoria Beverly Hills pool deck. The hotel has an artsy, minimalist feel that I’m totally digging. Peyton would have hated it because the pool doesn’t have five waterslides. Kids in Florida are spoiled rotten.
Thankfully, I don’t have to wear a swimsuit. Apparently, “butter” to Val translates into a summery, raspberry-colored MISA sundress, high-heeled sandals I can barely walk in, and lots of gold eye shadow. As he paints my face, Val pokes my forehead with a long, skinny finger. “We need to get you Botox here and here.”
“No Botox!” I slap his finger away. “I already spent two hours at your aesthetician’s, and I’m pretty sure my human rights were violated.”
It takes an hour to do my hair, but when he’s done, I look like I could land six shampoo commercials. The downside is that by the time I stagger onto the pool deck on Val’s arm, I’m hungry enough to eat a dinosaur.
“Do you have a chip pack or something?” I ask him.
His voice deepens. “Don’t you even talk about food in my clothes.”
Wow. Turns out there’s a teaspoon of Samuel L. Jackson extract in those cupcakes.
Jason is late, but nobody seems to care. We all just wait. I check my phone. There’s another text from Jill reminding me that “sex sells” and to “make those photos steamy, girl. We want to sell books!” When Jason finally shows up, they whisk him away and return him in a long-sleeved dark blue shirt, white pants, and bare feet.
“How come he gets to go barefoot?” I hiss at Val.
“Because you’re short.”
“I’m not that short.”
When Jason makes his way onto the pool deck, I’m less bold.
“Hi,” he says, his smile loose and disarming. They’ve put some more curl in his hair, effectively turning my entire vascular system into a wave pool. The shirt is tight and starched over his chest, tapering at the waist. I don’t dare look any lower.
“Hi,” I reply. I’m still mad at him over that “low-hanging fruit” comment and the fact that it’s been months since we were on The Terica Show together and he hasn’t liked even one of my posts, but I’m not going to be rude about it. Besides, my face is probably screaming like a stinking traitor how attracted to him I am.
“You look nice. I like the dress.”
“You look nice, too. I like the…” I wave my arms at him vaguely. “Everything.” Geez, as a writer, I should have more mastery over language.
We’re ushered into position before the conversation can go any further, and thank God and Tom Hanks for that. I quickly discover that the plan for this celebrity crush photo shoot is for him to look all nonchalant and uninterested and for me to look like a lovesick washcloth. The photographer, an Asian woman with a clipped accent whose smile appears to have been surgically removed, points at me. “Put your hands like you are crawling up him, trying to get his attention.”
I want to ask if she’s serious, but I have to assume she knows what she’s doing. I lay a hand on Jason’s rock-hard chest, and immediately my face flushes. My other hand winds up on his abs, and when they flex under his shirt, I yank it away like I’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake. Jason doesn’t do anything to make it easier for me. He just stares off into the distance.
I tilt my head and go for my best pining face, all the while adjusting my hands, trying to find a place for them that doesn’t make me look like a drunk stripper desperate for an extra fifty bucks. Ten minutes later, I still haven’t managed it. I should be enjoying this, but it feels awkward and wrong and, frankly, degrading. I don’t know if it’s pride or garden-variety self-respect, but I just can’t do this.
“I’m sorry.” I cease my pawing. “Can’t we, like, just stand next to each other? Like normal people?”
The photographer turns to her assistant. “Oh God, she’s difficult.”
“I’m not difficult!”
But apparently, I’m difficult, because no one but me says otherwise.
The photographer waves a finger at me. “Okay, fine. Turn to each other. Put your arms around his neck.”
Well, well, well, apparently being difficult works.
I’ve never been so thankful to have bought Tic Tacs at an airport. My face is two inches away from Jason’s as they adjust our bodies, my heart thumping like a piston. I catch a whiff of his citrus-musk cologne amid all the chlorine molecules in the air, and I’m hyper-aware of his hands on my waist, although they kind of feel like they’re just doing what they’re told. I’m supposed to gaze longingly at him, but I can feel my face doing twitchy things.
It’s just a photo shoot, Emmy. You can do this.
But everything is weird squared, and I feel like I’m made of right angles. I don’t know if I can make this math problem look sexy enough to sell books. I’m just not cut out for this, and everyone here knows it, including Jason Connor. Especially Jason Connor.
But he’s right here . In my arms. It’d be different if any of this were real. Even a little bit.
“Relax!” Val growls from behind me.
“Yeah, that’s helpful!” I shout over my shoulder. The camera clicks as I do it. That’ll be a keeper.
Jason sighs and squints but doesn’t say anything. I’m screwing this up big-time. Later today, I have a book signing, which is something I can do. But this?
The next pose is even worse. They have me draped across his lap like a blanket. I should be ultra-turned-on, but the way they want me to hold my head is killing my neck, and Jason keeps shifting his hip where my elbow digs into it. I catch a glimpse of my face in the preview window of the digital camera, and it’s truly horrifying. The following pose doesn’t work, either. We’re supposed to be lounging together by the pool, but it looks like we’re waiting out a fire drill.
The photographer calls a break, and I find a table inside where I crack open my laptop, Val’s sandals in a pile at my feet. I spend a few minutes deciding I’ll go ahead and blog about this gawful photo shoot. I’m not too proud for that. I’m deep into the fifth paragraph of carnage when the smell of salami cuts into my creativity. Jason is standing in front of me, munching on a sub.
“What are you working on?”
Immediately, I transform into Bruce from Finding Nemo . “Do they have food for us?”
He shakes his head. “Models don’t eat. I went on a sandwich run.” In his preppy clothes, he looks like a grown-up frat boy, casual and unbreakable. He holds the sub out to me. “Want a bite? Bread’s a no-no for me anyway. Ends up right here.” He points to his nonexistent love handles.
“Yes!” I reach across the table for the sub. He watches as I take a bite. Then another. Then a third. He doesn’t move. It’s very Christian Slater of him.
“Hey,” he says on the fourth bite, “I’m still hungry, too, you know.”
But it’s so good, and I haven’t eaten in ages. Plus, he deserves a little payback for being such an ass to me. And for never liking my social media posts. Or following me.
My chair grates against the floor as I stand up, still chewing, and get into position.
His eyebrows go up. “Are you—are you stealing my sandwich?” His voice cracks, but this time he’s doing it on purpose, for effect.
“No.” I stifle a smile and back up one step toward the glass doors leading to the pool deck.
“You are stealing my sandwich!”
“No, I’m not.”
He takes a step toward me, a vampire smile on his face, and I take one back to match it. Another bite disappears. From the hallway behind Jason, Val is headed our way, flat iron in hand—I can only assume he’s about to beat me to death with it for eating in his dress. Jason takes two steps toward me, fast, and that’s my cue. Sandwich in hand, I turn and run.
“Oh no, you don’t!” he shouts, but oh yes, I do—right through the tinted doors and across the pool deck. I knock a plastic chair over behind me to slow his chase.
Around the pool we go, but he’s faster than me, and I’m running out of furniture to toss into his path. Sunning itself on the surface of the water is a light blue inner tube with a bottom. Just when he’s about to catch up with me, I panic and take a flying leap into it. Now I’m stuffing Jason Connor’s sandwich into my face while skimming away from him across the pool. He puts on the brakes just in time to avoid ending up in the water.
He shakes his head at me, but he’s smiling. So much for paybacks. He’s loving this.
“Jump in after her!” the photographer shouts.
We both turn to her in confusion. She’s wearing an insane, unnatural smile and bouncing up and down in her designer sneakers as she lifts the camera to her face.
Jason’s open mouth snaps shut, and, without protest, he peels the navy shirt over his head in one movement, exposing all the muscles in his bare torso. He dives in wearing only the white pants, sending waves erupting across the surface. I crouch down low inside the inner tube, my dress forming a nest around me. He pops up, one hand seizing the edge of my floatie, bending it with threatening force.
“Fine, fine, you can have some!” I hold out the sandwich as a peace offering. He rises up like a sea monster for a bite. I feed him the rest of the sub, and it’s not easy in a pool. There’s a little dot of mustard on the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, I wipe it away with my thumb. His tongue flicks to that spot and lingers, eyes on me. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
Damn it, Emmy! Don’t read into it!
Meanwhile, Val is glaring at me, and cameras are going off all around us. Now that the sandwich is gone, neither one of us seems to know what to do.
“Knock her into the water!” the photographer shouts. This lady obviously hates me.
“Please don’t,” I beg Jason. “I gave you back your sandwich.”
He makes a gesture like it’s out of his hands, but I can see him stifling a grin. “I have to do what they tell me to.”
I open my mouth to rebut, but he leans hard on one side of the floatie, upending it and sending me tumbling over his shoulder into the water. Even though it’s summer, the water is freezing! When I break the surface, my teeth are chattering, and I’m pretty sure I look like the dead girl from The Ring . Beside me, Jason treads water, his face transitioning back and forth between smug and apologetic.
“Are you mad?” he asks.
I part my Ring bangs. “I was already mad.”
“I know.” He adds sheepishly, “Flames and skulls?”
“You saw that?”
“Hashtag Random Yoga Poses showed up in my feed. Recommended for you. ”
I smirk. “ Hashtag it’s just Random Yoga Poses .”
“ Hashtag okay then.”
“ Hashtag get it right next time.”
“ Hashtag I will.”
I’m starting to warm up in the water. I peek around his broad shoulders and see the cameras waiting.
Make those photos steamy, girl!
I can’t believe I’m doing it, but I swim toward him. Jason Connor is right here, soaking wet, practically asking to be used for my own benefit. If my fans want sexy Cinderella, they’re going to get it— Little Mermaid –style.
I dive down and swim under him, blowing bubbles teasingly. When I surface, I’m right behind him, and I mean right behind him . He turns in surprise. My hands are hidden under the water, but I know he can feel them on his bare lats. If I look him in the eyes, I’m going to blush, so I don’t. Then his hands are on either side of my face, tilting it up. I blink into his aquamarine eyes. The cameras are clicking so fast they sound like insects.
“You’re making this so hard,” he whispers.
I don’t know what he means. His thumb caresses my jawline. Underwater, my hands play along his washboard stomach, more than is necessary when the cameras can’t even see them, but I can’t stop myself. Our legs bang together as we tread water. Even these small touches kick off all kinds of reactions in my body. Jason is staring into my eyes with a hungry intensity. His hands shift to my waist, holding me in place, a reminder that he can move my body as he pleases, and I imagine what that might be like.
Holy heck, I didn’t expect him to lean into this so much! All my red lights are flashing. The alarms are blaring. If I don’t adjust course, my ship is going to crash, and hard. But maybe it’s worth it. He’s totally out of my league, obviously, though if he likes what he sees, there’s a chance I could have something with him. Something meaningless and temporary, but something, nonetheless. Maybe that would be good enough. Now that I’m older and wiser, if I don’t cling to any delusions or expectations, maybe my heart could survive it. Bulletproof people aren’t afraid of a gunfight, right?
“Don’t move! Don’t move! It’s brilliant!” the photographer cries.
I blink in the shards of sunlight glinting off the pool’s surface. Jason is holding the shot like we’ve been told to. His face looks just like it did in that scene I love so much, the heartbreaking “Whoever cares most gets to win” scene. God, he’s so good at this. I almost believe it’s for me and not the cameras.
Maybe I’m making a mistake, playing him for book sales.
Maybe I didn’t imagine our chemistry during The Terica Show .
Oh, Emmy, don’t be stupid. You and Hollywood know each other better than that. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—you’re probably Jason Connor. That or a Wham! song.
But I have books to sell and my dreams to recapture. Jason Connor is the conduit. I can do this!
His chest muscles are rock-hard under my palms. I wrap a leg around one of his for leverage and rise up so our mouths are only an inch apart. He doesn’t fight it. In fact, he pulls me to him, and the fact that there’s only one thin layer of wet cotton between me and his smoking-hot everything fuels my boldness. I lift my gaze from his slightly parted lips to those sea-glass eyes, and oh Lord, have mercy ! With his arms cinched tight around me and that ravenous gaze, my warp drive’s already at ten and about to overload.
I can’t do this.
Jason is just acting, and I’m supposed to be acting, too. Except I’m not. No matter what I tell myself, this isn’t just a marketing stunt, and I don’t know how to stop feeling this way. Call me difficult, but this bulletproof stuff doesn’t come easy for me, and right now I can’t pretend anymore.
I push away, fill my mouth with water, and spit it at him. Playfully, I hope. His face transforms into confusion. I lunge away, but a hand closes around my ankle, dragging me back. Great. I’ve pissed him off. I wince and steel myself for paybacks.
“It’s okay.” He releases my ankle and holds his hands up in surrender. His eyes are soft, like maybe he gets it. “But let’s give them some more shots. I have an idea.”
His hand searches for mine under the water. I let him take it, melting at the reality that Jason Connor is holding my hand ! He pulls me to a place where we can both reach bottom. When he spins around to face me again, I’m so far gone I’ll do whatever he suggests. I’ll say yes to anything.
He grins. “Chicken fight?”
I wasn’t expecting that. I look around in case another couple has mysteriously appeared in the water. “There’s nobody to fight.”
He shrugs and does the nonchalant face. “We’ll just pretend there is.”
I don’t know what he’s up to, but why not? It’s certainly less stressful than staring into his eyes and lying to myself that I don’t feel anything. I watch his face disappear inch by inch under the water. For a moment, I’m all alone. Then his head and shoulders are pressing upward between my thighs, a sensation that awakens all kinds of interesting feelings I don’t need to dissect right now, and I’m lifted up. When his head breaks the surface, the skirt of my dress covers his face.
He squints up at me as I stuff the folds of fabric behind his head and lock my legs. “Wow, you’re a clencher, aren’t you?”
“Two-time New Port Richey High School chicken fight champion at your service.”
The cameras are snapping away, but there’s not really anywhere to go from here.
“Were you a cheerleader in high school, too?” he asks.
“No, why?”
“Can you stand up?”
“Maybe.”
“Try.”
Nobody ever said I’m not up for a challenge. I brace myself on his hands and work my foot onto his shoulder. It takes a few yoga-balancing techniques, but I get the second foot in place and begin to straighten my legs as our hands fight to steady us.
“I’m letting go!” he warns as I take the weight off his palms. My arms pinwheel as he seizes my ankles, but we don’t last. With a scream, I’m in the water again. When I pop up, he’s got the biggest, realest smile I’ve ever seen on him in person. “That was awesome! We almost had it!”
“Angry yoga is good for your balance.”
“Flames! Skulls!” He flashes his fierce face.
“A thousand arms!” I flash mine.
“I can’t believe you left that out as a selling point.”
“Right?”
“Come on. Let’s try again.”
We try a few more times, and it’s a total disaster, except for the last time, when I manage to stand up for a full one-one-thousand count.
“And the crowd goes wild!” he roars through the megaphone of his hands.
I’m laughing so hard I’m half-drowning. We’ve drifted into the deep end again, and my toes don’t even graze the pool bottom here. Somehow, without my realizing it, my arms have found their way around his shoulders, letting him hold me up. It happens instinctively, and I’m surprised to find that, instead of putting on another face, he’s just looking at me, completely neutrally, letting it happen. I meet his gaze. For a moment that feels longer than it could possibly be, we don’t try to do anything, don’t try to be anything, don’t even try to look like anything. It’s oddly comfortable. Natural. Wonderful.
“Jason, look over here,” the photographer says. “Difficult Girl, don’t move.”
Even though she’s just cut short the best moment of my life, I do as she says. I stare at his profile as he does the smolder for the camera. My eyes trace a drop of water meandering from a crease in his forehead, around his eyebrow, and down his dripping sideburn. On a whim, I trace the same path with my finger. Why not? I’ll never get the chance again.
“Gorgeous!” the photographer cries. “We have what we need.”
Val appears at the pool steps with a towel, and Jason gives me a little push in that direction. The pressure of his hand on my hip lingers even after I rise, soaking wet, out of the water.
I pad across the pool deck, wrapping the enormous towel around me, and peek at the computer monitor. Even though I’m “difficult” (or maybe because I am), the assistant scrolls through the thumbnails for me. A lot of the photos sparkle with diamonds of water spray, and my hair is a mess, but at least I don’t look like a lovesick washcloth. I’m proud and a little shocked at how sexy some of the shots are. I guess Ariel got the job done after all. Although, come to think of it, things didn’t work out that great for Ariel.
But I’m not some naive sixteen-year-old with a crab for a sidekick. I see Hollywood for what it is—a real-life Hunger Games where you either take down or get taken down. And I’m not going down this time.
There’s one picture that sticks with me, though, even after Jason and I exchange a shy goodbye and I surrender myself to Val to be transformed for this evening’s book signing in San Diego. The photo is of us in the pool, my arms around his neck. I’m looking out at a blurry, whitewashed LA skyline, but Jason is looking at me.
I can’t get it out of my head as Val tugs at the knots in my hair and glops makeup remover under my eyes, redoing his work, slowly, with care, like a great artist creating a masterpiece from a lump of clay.
I can’t help thinking Jason’s looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing in the world.
And it almost doesn’t look like he’s acting at all.